Home Stretch

I'm now nearing the end of my time here in Tanzania. I leave in four days, which leaves little to do except pack in as much fun and culture as I can before leaving.

Tomorrow I am going to Saba Saba ('Saba' means 'seven' in Kiswahili, and the festival takes place in the ten days surrounding 07/07- or, 'Saba Saba'), an annual East African trade fair, with Pepy. I'm especially excited about this because it is rumored that traders from Zambia, Mozambique, Rwanda, Burundi, Uganda, and Kenya will all be in attendance, in addition to giraffes and lions and cheetahs and stuff. If you don't hear from me again until I'm in Doha, it's because I spent all my money on knick knacks at Saba Saba and didn't have any left to buy internet vouchers.

It's hard to reflect back on my trip quite yet- much like painting a picture, it's easier to understand the whole thing when you stand back and look at it from a different angle. I know it has been amazing- I have learned so much, and met so many incredible people from around the world. I look forward to coming home and telling my stories, as well as experiencing the contrast between our two cultures. I've been told by those who traveled Africa before me that the culture shock really sets in upon return to America, and so I am preparing.

I am eagerly awaiting my return home for several reasons. One, I miss my family and friends dearly. Two, I miss the mountains, especially now that it's summertime and I'm seeing all of the pictures of swimming and hiking and camping that people are putting on Facebook (I imagine this is how cats must feel watching birds behind glass). Finally, I am simply excited to get started on this next chapter in my life- I'm going back to school, and moving into my first apartment. I've always been one to enjoy transitions; changing my lifestyle and surroundings is soul-cleansing and helps me to stay focused on what is important.

As always with moving forward, however, something must be left behind. I have come to think of the Kawishes as family, and it breaks my heart to be leaving and knowing that it could be years before I see them again. I wouldn't change anything about my experiences with them, or at the school, or throughout Dar Es Salaam and Tanzania. I feel I have only scratched the surface of a rich and ancient culture, and though I know it isn't going anywhere, I know that it is still a developing nation and that it has rocky roads ahead, as do we all. I wish I could continue to be here and witness this growth, but right now my best shot at aiding the children of this country is to go home and use what I've learned to develop strategies and resources, and help out those who want to volunteer as well.

I want to thank all of you who have given me support throughout this journey. Even if I haven't shown it here as often as I had hoped to, my experiences have been life-altering and phenomenal, and I know none of it would have been possible if it weren't for the help I've gotten from every single one of you. I want to thank those back home who have been especially helpful since I've been here- those who have listened to my frustrations, rejoiced alongside me, and given encouragement and solace when I've been especially homesick:

Evie, no words can describe. Mainly because we don't use words, but Channel 3. There are a million reasons I am proud to call you my best friend, and you've exhibited every single one of them since I've been here.

Josh, whose patience and late-night tendencies have helped maintain my sanity more times than I can count, and whose friendship has been an anchor.

My mom and dad, for being my pillars and sources of great advice and comfort, and whose flexibility and selfless love knows no bounds.

My grandparents, for their wonderful letters giving news and love from home that, were they written on paper, would be worn from over-reading.

I love you all. Thank you for your support and patience, and I'll see you Stateside in a few days :)

Emily

T-minus 27 days until I can have a cheeseburger

As of today, I have 27 days left in the country. My time here has flown by, and I am scrambling to pack as much into the last few weeks here as possible.

Two weeks ago, I finished my work at Mount Everest School. The last few days of school were incredibly hard; I told my class on Monday that it would be my last week teaching them, and even with the few days left a few of them broke down into tears, setting me on the verge as well. We didn't do any schoolwork that week, as exams had just ended, and instead we focused on games; I taught them how to play Ultimate Frisbee, and they taught me how to play a game called "Rede" (pronounced "reh-day"), sort of like Dodgeball.

The Thursday before school ended, they had a dance contest in the cafeteria. The contest started with the littlest kids from the nursery and worked its way up through the classes, and I was initially shocked. If I had danced like some of these little 4-year-olds at a high school dance, I might have been thrown out. Here, it's cultural, that's just what you do: (WARNING: The next video may not be appropriate if you don't want to see suggestive booty shaking, though it is an accurate portrayal of dancing here. Just letting you know.)

much like this is what you do at home:

(I did an ill-performed demo of "back-home dancing", which was met with concerned looks and sniggers throughout the classroom)

On the last day, it took a full hour to say sad goodbyes to all of my teary-eyed students. I will go back a couple of days before I leave just to say goodbye, but still I am saddened to leave behind this chapter of my life.

At the same time, I am hopeful for the future and the rest of the time I have here. This past week Jackie was on holiday as well, and we went shopping and to the beach a bit. I also got a new hairdo!

I was planning on going to the American Embassy today to see if there is anything that they had in mind for a volunteer to do in her weeks left in Tanzania, but found it almost impossible to make an appointment, as Hillary Clinton is in da house this week.

I will post a bit more as time rolls on this week; it's been beautiful out and I'm excited to have so much free time on my hands to experience more of Tanzania.

BIG shout out to everyone at home! Love you guys :)

Trip To Tanga

This one is a doozy- I went on a school trip to Tanga with the 6th and 7th years, and this is the story. If it looks too long, just hang in there, there are monkeys at the end!!!

I left for Tanga on a Monday morning at the lovely hour of 3:30am. I was expecting the regular schoolbus to pick me up outside the Kawishe house, but instead I was greeted by an enormous tour bus, sort of like the one my Papaw drives for Youngs in North Carolina, but from the '80s. I had the luxury of being the first person (besides the driver) on the bus, and so I had my pick of all the seats. I chose a single seat towards the front with precisely 5 1/2 inches of legroom, something I didn't think would be a problem because I was right next to the aisle.

We went to the school and picked up the kids; my bus was full of 7th year girls, none of whom I knew very well at that point. Then at around 7am we left for Tanga!

As soon as we crested the ridge to the west of Bagamoyo Road, as far as the eye could see were hills and valleys, spectacularly crisp and golden in the morning light, and reminding me of the hills and pastures back home- this was the Africa I had dreamt of seeing for so long (as much as I love being in Dar Es Salaam, I am simply not made for city life). There were massive Boabab trees, tiny colorful birds and butterflies, and the flat-topped Acacia trees, a picturesque African setting mixed with rugged civilization. Almost all of the houses from here to Tanga were constructed with hand-made red bricks and corrugated tin roofing.

We drove for several hours, and though I tried to stay awake so as not to miss any of the scenery, I fell asleep pretty abruptly, likely from a mixture of waking up at 3am and the fact that it was Monday. When I woke up a few hours later, we were pulling into a highway food stop, along with many other buses that were traveling on the same road.

Note: Very few people here use their own cars to travel long distances across the country, preferring instead to use the cheaper (and lo, more environmentally friendly!) public transit. These buses don't mess around, either; their main source of income is getting back and forth as quickly as possible, to maximize their passenger count. They race down the roads at speeds that would make a high school kid in a Ferrari blush, their suspensions straining and horns blaring.

Anyway, we arrived at the restaurant and had lunches of chips (really french fries, what we would call "chips", they call "crisps", as does apparently everyone else on the planet. They also eat their "chips" with fried eggs. Feel free to make your own judgements there) and soda, running into the first and last mzungus we would see on the trip and stuffing ourselves before setting off promptly for the next leg of our journey.

I fell asleep again pretty quickly once back on the bus, and when I woke up we were about to enter into a mountain range the likes of which I didn't know existed in Tanzania. I love the Blue Ridge Mountains, I do, but these were just stunning. We began our way through the mountains, on tiny winding roads that were straight up on one side, and just one slip of the tire to a plummeting, screaming death on the other. Remember my post earlier about traffic? This bus driver- bless his soul, I wanted to kiss his feet once we got off that mountain alive- drove as though there wasn't a five-billion mile drop off to one side. More than once I squealed in terror (I was on the left side of the bus and so I could see straight down to the ground below) and prompted funny looks from the girls on the bus. I tried so hard to sleep on this leg, I did, but as far as I was concerned, if I fell asleep, there would be no one to cheer the bus on and keep it from falling off the side of the mountain.

We finally arrived at the Irente Viewpoint, a cliffside at the top of one of the peaks that looked out over the savannah. We got there right at sunset, and there are no words to describe how beautiful the lookout was. The sun reflected off of the rivers and lakes, giving the earth the look of having golden veins flowing through its dark green and brown skin. The clouds were deep golden and blue, hovering in marshmallow clumps just over a mountain in the distance. I captured a few pictures, which show only a fraction of how beautiful it was there:

As you can see, this viewpoint is extremely high up- I would wager almost a mile, but I'm no great shakes at judging distances- and there are no fences. When I sat down to get this shot, the students all got a look on their faces like I'd just picked up a live snake, and started begging me to leave the edge. I held out enough for just a few photos, and then consented to be dragged back to safety by the children.

After Irente, we started the two-hour journey (back on the mountain roads for a bit, but now at night) to where we would be staying for the night. It was a boarding school, however, the children had gone home for the holidays, so there were extra beds for us. We were fed, bathed, and hit the sack- except there were not enough beds for all of the children. They ended up sleeping two to a mattress (twin size), and I don't think they slept too well (although that might have been more due to my bedtime story about the child-eating Booger that lived in the shack near our old cabin in the woods than their bedding situation).

We woke bright and early the next day, bathed, took tea, and drove another four hours to the tea factory in upper Lesotho, something I wasn't anticipating would be very interesting but turned out to be a gold mine for photography and obscure trivia, both of which happen to be hobbies of mine. Here are some tea factory pictures:

The tea factory was especially interesting for me, because until Africa, I really didn't have much experience with tea. I had the occasional hot cup at work or at home, but I never really went out of my way- I'm just not a "tea person". But here, it's ingrained into the culture. The sad thing is that none of the prime-grade tea stays in the country; it's exported to America and Europe and Japan, where it is bought for close to the price people pay for it here- accounting for currency ratios, that's next to nothing.

After the tea factory, we drove back to the hostel (another three hours) for lunch, and then on our way out of the mountains we stopped at some waterfalls that shall remain nameless because I can't spell it:

After the waterfalls, we started out to Tanga town, leaving the mountains entirely. At this point, I was extremely, stubbornly cranky. I had been sick all that day from what I assumed was food poisoning from improperly cooked food, and hadn't gotten much sleep the night before because there were no mosquito nets and I had to be careful to keep the tiny sheet covering me completely, even though it was swelteringly hot. To top that off, my iPod was dying and I didn't think I could stand another minute of the whiny-voiced singer that was playing at obscenely high volume on the bus speakers. I hate to sound like Debbie Downer, or maybe a Frowny Fran, but the rest of the trip was the ultimate test for my sanity. That night we arrived at another boarding school in Tanga town, where once again there weren't enough beds and this time there were twice the mosquitoes, and no nets.

I was rooming with two girls my age who worked at the school, both with newborn babies. They spoke little English, but added to my Kiswahili and ridiculous hand gestures, we were able to have a good conversation about their families and mine, and how absolutely adorable their babies were. Most babies here sleep through the night quietly in the bed with their mothers, under a mosquito net. I was on the top bunk, right over the mother with the youngest baby, less than two weeks old (babies here are notorious for not crying as much as white babies- I'd be interested to see the study on that).

That night I was miserably sick, getting up every few minutes to go empty my stomach outside. I woke up that morning even crankier than the day before, and hungry- I stopped eating the food on the trip once I realized it was making me sick. However, I was excited for one thing, the part of the trip that had drawn me to go in the first place- the Amboni Caves.

Amboni Caves (according to Wikipedia) are the most extensive caves in East Africa, covering an area of 234 kilometers. They are most famous in America for the "Popo Flight"- "Popo" meaning "bat" in Kiswahili- where all the bats fly out of the cave at once. There are also many legends surrounding the caves, the most notorious being one about two WWII ex-Army soldiers who went in with their dog and never returned, although the dog, identified by ID tags, showed up months later outside another cave, 400km away at Mt. Kilimanjaro. There are also many local superstitions about gods and spirits inhabiting the caves, and they are actively used for local religious purposes, as I discovered when we arrived there and some locals were sacrificing a goat in front of the cave entrance.

Unfortunately, despite gritting my teeth and telling myself I was fine, I was too sick to go inside the caves, and spent the next hour or so switching between being curled in various positions on the benches outside the cave, and feeling good enough to take some pictures. The kids even stole my camera and took some of their own while I was comatose. I saw some blue monkeys and a monitor lizard:

...And was even treated with a trip to the MOST TERRIFYING BATHROOM I HAVE EVER BEEN IN.

This bathroom was literally a mud-and-leaf shack over a hole in the ground, within which probably lived the Booger's cousin. It was the desperation of my situation that drove me to what are possibly the least dignified moments of my life, trying to balance over this dirt hole in the ground while training my flashlight (it was pitch black inside, also) on a spider I had only seen in the Harry Potter films and didn't know actually existed:

Okay, it's not actually a spider, it's called a "Tailless Whip Scorpion" which is much, much scarier. It was about the size of my hand, and those thicker legs on the front are actually pincers. I was thinking of you guys when I took this picture, because I knew no one would believe me if I didn't get a photo of it.

Overall, the Amboni Caves trip was pleasant despite my organ malfunctions, and when we arrived back in Tanga town a while later I was feeling much better and was able to visit some of the shops with the kids in the main marketplace, where they sell live chickens and turkeys and all manner of fruits, vegetables, meats, and crafts. I got several white-person-esque souvenirs and was ready to head back to Dar to sleep.

It took us eight hours on a long, dark, bumpy road to get back to Dar. We passed all manner of pedestrians walking on the impossibly rural road, usually women carrying water on their heads. I sometimes spotted gleaming eyes from the side of the road, probably belonging to a dog or wild pig, but I sort of hoped it was a lion or rhinoceros or something cool. I slept as much as I could, rationing my iPod battery by taking my waking hours teaching the girls songs and playing games.

We arrived back at Mlimani City Mall around midnight, and before any teachers could go home we had to wait for all of the children's parents to pick them up for the holidays. When I arrived home, I think I slept for about eighteen hours. I would like to go back to the caves someday and go through them, but I will bring a box lunch next time.

I want to thank you all for being so patient with my blog! I especially want to thank my parents, who have been my rock throughout this whole trip for better or worse. It's been hard at times but the love of a parent knows no bounds and I have never been more grateful- the encouragement and affection that have come from my Mom and Dad are worthy of medals.

Also my grandparents, my beloved Nana and Papaw, for showing me unconditional love and patience always, and for their letters (both electronic and old-fashioned!) which I love and read over and over.

My BFF Evie, of course. Thanks for letting me use up my week's minutes with you :) You'll hear from me soon!

My brother, for being one of the fastest kids west of Kenya, and for looking so handsome at his prom with his beautiful gal!

The Youngs, my favorite neighbors and family :) It was so good to talk to all of you- only a couple months left til I'm home and can see you in person!!

The Schenkels, for continuing to be a fabulous family #2.

And of course, my ever-wonderful friend Richard, for supplying reading material. You are a lifesaver- one of the Asheville stickers you sent last time is on my computer!

Thanks to the ends of the earth for the Kawishes, and for John & Pepy.

Tip of the hat to my favorite chinwagging neighbor and his stateside lady!

If I haven't mentioned you here, please know all support means the world to me and I can't write enough how much I appreciate and love your words of wisdom and encouragement. Another blog coming up soon about my trip to Bagamoyo!

Nimependa wewe,

Kwa heri!

Emily

Halfway through!

Today, I have been here three months. It's a bittersweet feeling- I'm very homesick, and it breaks my heart to think about the mountains and how beautiful they must be right now. But I've found my passion with the kids at the school and the friends I've made here. There is a lot to catch you guys up on- once again my fault, and I apologize.

The rainy season is completely upon us. It rains almost every day, sometimes a downpour and sometimes just a drizzle- but it is both a blessing and a curse. My nana has a needlepoint that always hangs somewhere in her house that says "If you pray for rain, be prepared to deal with some mud!". We aren't so much dealing with mud here as we are small lakes forming in inconvenient places- namely, the road I have to walk on to get home. I stopped about a week ago and put some big stones in the middle of the dry road so that when it's covered in a few inches of water, I still have a way to hop across. The roads on the bus route home are sometimes completely covered, sometimes just dotted with big puddles, and sometimes we can see the effects of the rain off to the side of the road. There is a space the size of a large parking lot on our way home that is completely covered in water- I've seen little kids up to their shins in it. The drainage ditches on the sides of the road are full of it too- it looks exactly like milk chocolate sometimes. Makes me hungry.

With the rain, there are more bugs. Mosquitos, flies, and fun anonymous bugs that might look friendly but somewhere hide a large stinger or set of fangs or both. With the bugs, there are more bats. After dinner I like to walk around the compound at night, and listen to the frogs (their chirps sound like little bendy straws being stretched out for the first time). Usually if I stand by the pool long enough, I can see the enormous fruit bats swoop down from the trees and skim the surface of the pool, gathering water or water-loving bugs in their mouths, I'm not sure which. Even swimming at night sometimes, they come and skate across the water, something that used to really scare me but now is comforting, like a friend I only get to see on occasion. Their wingspan is the length of one arm, like a cat flying through the air.

I've been slowly working my way outwards from the house. When I first came to the Kawishes, I was nervous to walk the hundred yards down the road to the voucher stand to buy more minutes for my internet. Eventually I walked around and found a small grocery store just a bit further, and when the bakery opened back up down the street I started walking there too (they make incredible samosas- not to be confused with mimosa).

I am now better in Swahili than I ever was in French. I can go to the voucher stand and the bakery and the grocery store in one trip, also greeting others along the way, and never have to use a word of English, an accomplishment I'm very proud of. The locals say that I have a very good accent for a mzungu- some of them assume I know much more Swahili than I actually do. I hope that with 3 more months, I'll be close to fluent. The hardest part is learning individual words. In English, you can usually use the Latin roots for words that you don't know to figure out what they mean. There isn't any way to do this in Kiswahili- it's just a matter of reading and talking a lot and asking when you don't know what a word means. It's difficult, and even some of the elder Africans don't know what all the words mean.

As far as working at the school goes, I'm having a blast. Those kids are the sweetest. Here are a few pictures, for those of you who haven't seen them on my Facebook page:

This is Sylvia.

And this is Elias. He and Sylvia sit in the front of the bus on my and Mr. Mchome's laps on the way home in the evening. They like to hold hands.

Myself and some of the kids from class 6Yellow.

Catching raindrops!

On my birthday, the kids in 6 Yellow stood up and sang Happy Birthday for me in Swahili, and gave me little hand-drawn cards and flowers they found in the field. I could've come home to a Lamborghini in the driveway and not have been so happy. This class also got the highest English grades in the school- I was very proud of them, and it felt really good to know that I've taught them even just a little.

This coming Monday, I'm going with the 6th and 7th grade classes to Tanga, a coastal town about 8 hours north of here. It should be exciting- I will get to see monkeys, baboons, chameleons, a zillion birds, some ancient caves, more bats, and I'm crossing my fingers for a lion or giraffe, even though the teachers say I probably won't see one. Never bad to hope!

I want to thank everyone who sent me birthday wishes- it means a lot to have so many of you supporting me back home! A few shout-outs before I sign off:

Clay, Lydia, and your wonderful family- thank you so much for the birthday blessings! I hope to get to see you all in August!

Clevenger clan- (Aunt Helen, Uncle Adam, Peyton & Patterson, Nana & Papaw, and of course my parents) It means the world to hear from you, and I love you so much.

Aunt Judy & Uncle Gary- Thanks for the card! It is adorable, and made my day :)

GCPC Session and Friends- Your card was incredibly sweet; had me in tears! Thank you so much for the heartfelt blessings, it really does mean a lot!!!

Richard, for sending me all these fantastic books. Thirteen Moons was wonderful- it was so nice to read such a beautifully written novel about the mountains, and it certainly helps the homesickness!

And last but definitely not least, Evie, for being the best friend ever. If I'm not crazy by the time I'm 90 it will be completely your doing.

Everyone else I haven't mentioned here, just know that you all mean so much to me, even if I haven't said it here. Also, if anyone has sent a letter or package and I haven't thanked you for it yet, that means I haven't received it- an issue I'm going to be resolving this week.

Next time I'll put up some pictures from Tanga- should be the best ones yet, if you want to see some monkeys and rainforest!

Love you all,

Mimi ninapenda wewe, tutaonana badai,

Emily

My First Tattoo :) .... was an April Fools Joke.

As it turns out, April Fools jokes don't lose potency over distance :)

^ Not my actual foot

Emily vs. Centipede

So I woke up around 5am today.

And saw this thing flailing around in my shower.

In case you're wondering, that is an African Black Centipede. They are deadly to children and the elderly, and also can cause anaphylactic shock in anyone allergic to bees. Other than that, they cause severe pain, swelling, fever, sweating, and weakness. And at 5am, I don't really feel like feeling any of those things.

Being the procrastinator that I am, I put a bucket on top of it and decided not to deal with it until I got home, hoping that it would die of starvation or drowning while I was gone. Unfortunately, when I got home, that was not the case. I very slowly and carefully removed the bucket to see it just sitting there chilling, as if to say "Hey! I'm going to avenge your murder attempt now!"

I quickly replaced the bucket, and went and got the longest thing I could think of, a coat hanger, to move it out of my shower and into the floor, where i put the bucket on top of it again and scooted it over close to the door.

I opened the door and yelled.

"JAAAAAACCCKKKKKSSSSOOOOOOOONNNNN...????"

....

"THERE'S A CENTIPEDE IN MY ROOOOMM I THINNNKK..."

....

"COME KILL IT PLEEEEASE?"

I know this is a bit off-color for me. I have been known to seek out snakes and bring them home to my poor mother, or other unsuspecting people who happen to be nearby. I didn't run when my brother and I uncovered a nest of baby black widows outside at the barn. I even worked as a snake handler in the reptile and insect room at the Nature Center when I was twelve. But this was an unwelcome surprise, and also I distinctly remember reading about centipedes in my "Most Venomous and Poisonous Animals" book that my parents gave me when I was seven (thanks Mom and Dad, although I'm sure you'd hoped I would never have to put that knowledge to use).

I went out in the hallway to see Jackson doing his homework at the table, headphones on. Deciding it was up to me, I went back into my room and picked up the coat hanger.

It was now or never. I removed the bucket.

I disposed of the body outside, as a warning to all other venomous creatures that might try to attack me at 5am. You've been warned.

Rainy season- maybe.

This week it rained.

As we rode in on the bus in the morning, the clouds ahead were just a little darker than usual. It was clear that they wouldn’t be able to save their rain to tease us for another day.

I had gotten the good seat on the bus and fell asleep quickly. I awoke just as we were pulling into the schoolyard, and I pulled my arm off the bus windowsill to find it soaked and chilly (something that I can promise you hasn’t happened here yet). I felt drops on my face too, and when I looked out the window it was pouring the sort of rain that promises to stay awhile. Even still- it felt like if I moved or breathed the wrong way, the rain would stop and we’d be doomed to another three weeks without rain.

With the rain comes cool weather. I know that I ranted for months before I left for Africa about how much I was excited to be in weather that didn’t involve mittens and two pairs of socks, but the arrival of even a few hours of cool weather was, in a word, awesome. I’m not ashamed to admit that I can handle the heat a lot less effectively than anyone else here. When the temperature here drops below 80 degrees, people don sweaters and jackets. And, for reasons that until recently were unfathomable to me, Africans drink hot tea three times a day.

The whole tea-drinking thing used to baffle me. I always end up sweating after drinking it- sweating like I’ve been presented with a Calculus exam on threat of losing a finger for every wrong answer. However, I was recently reading a book that my dear friend Richard sent me from home, called “House of Sand and Fog”, and one of the main characters, an Iranian ex-general, was speaking of the funny looks he got from fellow construction workers in California when he would drink hot tea from his Thermos. He wrote ‘…But they do not know what I do about the heat, that there must be a fire inside you to match the one around you.” It sort of made sense. The next day I decided not to take tea, and not only was I groggy with caffeine deficiency, I was soaking with sweat a few hours later.

African culture (or at least what I’ve witnessed so far in Dar Es Salaam) is full of little surprises like that. For instance, the time here is a little different; aside from the 7-hour time difference, I mean. The first time I asked “Saa ngapi?” (what time is it?) around lunchtime and got the answer “Saa nne” (eight-o-clock), I was thoroughly confused. The Swahili system of time begins at 7:00am, starting at 1:00, then 8am is considered 2:00, 9am is 3:00, and so on. While I probably won’t get used to it, it makes sense for a society that for the most part parallels with a day and night schedule.

Swahili greetings are different from American ones as well, language difference aside. I know that for most Americans, the only recognized Kiswahili word is “Jambo”, and maybe “asante” or “simba”. But “Jambo” isn’t at all a correct way to greet someone. African culture places a lot of importance on respect for your elders. There are three different ways to greet someone here: Hujambo, Mambo, or Skamoo.

The first one, “Hujambo” (Hoo-djyAHm-bo) is used to greet someone much younger than you. For example, I greet the kids at the school with “Hujambo!”, and their reply is “Sijambo!” (they’re usually giggling when they say it, because it’s hilarious to watch the mzungu try to speak Kiswahili).

To address someone close to your own age, you say “Mambo!”, to which they can reply a number of things- “Mzima”, “Poa”, “Safi”, “Shwari”, and sometimes “Fresh” (I always think of Will Smith in parachute pants when someone says this).

This is where it gets tricky. In America, if you insinuate someone is old, they get offended, even if you’ve just checked their I.D. because they’re using a check at the grocery store with the names “Florence” and “Opie” on it, and they’re buying prune juice and reminiscing about using stone and chisels back in “my day” when it was always snowing and everywhere you needed to go was inconveniently uphill. So when I first learned to say “Skamoo”, I used it sparingly, only saying it to the truly ancient. But after I got a few dirty looks from mothers after saying “Mambo”, I used it whenever I was in doubt that someone might be older than me. The correct reply is “Marahaba”, and they might greet you in return with “Hujambo”.

Food is another unavoidable minefield of opportunities to commit social faux-pas. If someone offers you food, it is considered highly impolite and disrespectful, and also selfish, to turn it down (the rationale, which is understandable, is that if you turn down food, you are also turning down the obligation of preparing food for them someday in return). However, there are a few precautions I took with eating before coming here that weren’t necessary. For instance, when I left, the belief was that in the society I was entering, doing anything with the left hand is dirty and inappropriate. This isn’t true.

Every household and restaurant I’ve eaten at has shared the experience of dining sans utensils. Even beans (maharage) and chopped spinach (mchicha). The food “ugali” is often used as a sort of edible replacement as a spoon, rolled in the palm and pressed in the middle with the thumb to make a bowl. I am always the only one at the table timidly pinching my food up to avoid getting my hands dirty; everyone else dives right in, emerging from dinner looking like potters at the wheel. I can’t say this is a bad idea; I love thinking that there are less dishes to do.

The traditional dress is my favorite part of African culture. There are kangas, kitenges, vitenges, and mashonos, and many more the words for which I haven’t learned yet. Kitenges are my favorite. I’m always in awe of how pretty they are- Mama Kawishe always looks very regal in hers, which are always colorful and elegant. Recently, she told me what my birthday present is- she is having two vitenges tailored for me, which I am very, very excited about. I went to the tailor on Saturday with Pepy to pick out the designs and material, and they should be ready by my birthday, at which point you can all expect a few pictures.

Anyway- signing out. I promise the delay in posting won’t be so long again, and I apologize for keeping my wonderful readers waiting. I want to shout out to a few people, once again:

My parents, who I am thankful don’t mind the outrageous international calling fees and whose calls and letters I am always happy to get.

My grandparents, for the loving emails that I adore and for being the best Nana and Papaw in the world.

ES, SW, KW, JH, DB, CD, DL, JP, and all my friends and mentors at home, for keeping me sane and not too lonely.

Richard, for being awesome and sending me all these excellent books!

And, although they won’t read this, my host family the Kawishes and Pepy, for keeping me happy, safe, and quite well-fed since I’ve been here.

Kwa Heri!

Emily

PS: Just a friendly notice- I would appreciate if the comments board was reserved for friendly messages and constructive criticism. If anyone has issue with what I write, please feel free to contact me privately. Thanks, and happy blogging!

Traffic

Today I would like to fill you all in about African traffic.

It is a necessity, obviously, that I be in traffic every now and then. But I can assure you that of all the dangers of Africa you may read about or hear about (snakes, insects, big mammals, guerillas, malaria, etc.), driving in Africa is by far the most lethal. The ticket books of the Woodfin Police would probably explode with excitement if they could see a Tanzanian intersection at rush hour.

Before we look at the finer aspects of navigating African traffic, let’s take a look at the handy diagrams I’ve made for you. This first one is showing the physical aspects and obstacles you may run into, without the added headache of dealing with other vehicles:

As you can see, it’s a little treacherous. Lets say you are driving to work in the morning. You leave your house at just the right time, you’ve got some Rick Astley or Celine Dion playing on the radio, and you’re looking forward to what promises to be a fulfilling day at the office/market/factory.

You get about as far as where a mailbox would be, if Africans had mailboxes, and all of a sudden your pleasant morning drive has morphed into Need 4 Speed: Most Wanted Offroad Edition, except everyone is in an advanced stage of drunkenness and are driving as though a rabid animal is attacking their face.

There are potholes the size of cows, actual cows, chickens, children, pedestrians, and the opposite of cow-sized potholes, whatever you’d like to call them (the word ‘bumps’ just sounds so tame…), and miscellaneous .

The potholes and bumps are the worst part. Since I ride the bus in the mornings with the students, we have to drive into some of the neighborhoods to pick up kids at their houses. The bus driver floors it over the bumps, making them the most obnoxious part of my day. Most of you know I am not a morning person, so I would like to take the opportunity of the 1 ½ hour bus ride to get some extra sleep, except it’s hard to sleep when you’re occasionally also airborne.

Now let’s take a look at navigating traffic on these roads.

The red box is my bus in the mornings. The dots are pedestrians.

When I first arrived home from the airport in Pepy’s car, I had to check the seat to make sure I hadn’t left fingernail marks. At first glance there is no discernible organization to the way people drive here. It’s literally the world’s biggest game of chicken- the train of thought for most drivers is, if there isn't a space big enough for your vehicle, force your way through until someone backs down. And amazingly, it usually works, or at least, I haven't witnessed an accident yet.

Because there aren’t any traffic police in Tanzania, you can pretty much get away with whatever you want on the road. There aren’t any lines on the roads, not that it matters, because the road is usually so covered in cars and people that the asphault/gravel could be painted pink with orange polka dots and no one would ever know.

However, the price of getting in an accident is very high. Although the police rarely catch people who cause accidents, the public usually take matters into their own hands. I’ve heard horror stories of drivers who cause terrifying fatal accidents fleeing the scene for fear of being beaten to death, or worse, drivers being killed by other drivers over fender benders. Just as a thief in the market will be beaten to death if caught, a careless driver will suffer the same fate.

There are very few traffic signs or signals in Africa. I’ve seen about three traffic lights, and people pay very little attention to them. The only effective means of controlling traffic that I’ve seen was a crossing guard. Mama Kawishe said that crossing guards make the most money of any kind of policeman in Dar Es Salaam, and I can see why; you wouldn’t catch me out there doing their job.

Mom, if you think my driving is bad, please don't come to Africa.

Next week: African socializing

Thanks to Allie Brosh and her blog Hyperbole and a Half for inspiring the drawings! And a shout out to Richard, my liberated friend from the produce department at Ingles, for being super thoughtful and sending me some much-needed reading material!!!

Another shout out to Aimee Buchanan for just being awesome and being my metaphorical Dumbledore. :)

Some more to some special teachers who need some recognition: Mrs. McGuire and Mrs. Szymanski, who have both been very big role models for me and wonderful supporters of my trip so far.

And of course, my loving family, Mom and Dad and Eli and Evie (all the Schenkels, really), Nana and Papaw, and Aunt Helen and Uncle Adam and Peyton and Patterson.

I love you all so much- promise to post again soon!!!

Kwa Heri,

Emily

Hospital Visit

It goes without saying that if you spend 6 months in Africa after having gone 20 years without spending more than a couple of weeks outside of the same small town, you will probably get sick. In all honesty I’ve been lucky- I made it through a full month without getting anything worse than a nosebleed.

I hadn’t been feeling so hot this past weekend. Well, that may be a poor choice of words- I hadn’t been feeling so great this past weekend. It started on Thursday afternoon, just the normal sick feeling- headache, congestion, stomachache, sore tonsils, and that horrible achy feeling that makes your skin crawl when you move or touch things, including the bed, the covers, and air. However, the normal sick feeling doesn’t feel so normal when I can hear the voice in my head taunting, “Malaria! Ebola! Sleeping Sickness! Zombie Virus!”

By Friday morning, I legitimately felt like I was dying. So when I finally succumbed to Mama Kawishe’s most guilt-producing looks of sympathy and agreed to go to the hospital, I had to brace myself just a little bit. She was comparing my symptoms with those of malaria, and was convinced that I had contracted the disease. I was too, a little- it is a practice in futility to try and avoid all the mosquitoes, because they’re everywhere, and if my memory serves, the malaria medicine isn’t a 100% prevention guarantee.

My first thought was that since malaria is a blood disease, the test to determine malarial infection would be a blood test. Despite my dad’s and Papaw’s most furtive attempts to turn me from needle-fearer into future-surgeon, I still cringe at the sight of a needle. And if they just hurt medium-amounts in America, surely in Africa they’re the size of bamboo shoots?

Upon arriving at the hospital (TMJ, a privately-owned place in Kawe), we parked the car and walked into the outpatient waiting room, which is also the inpatient waiting room and also the emergency room.

Literally the very first thing I saw upon walking up the ramp into the building was a gurney being pushed out to a large van by two nurses. A white sheet covered the body on the stretcher almost completely, although a pale, sallow white arm was exposed. Aside from seeing an open casket once, this was the first time I’d ever seen a dead body in real life, and as I was already nervous this didn’t help at all.

We entered the waiting room, which was hot and humid even with the open doors and presence of several oscillating fans. We were instructed to wait in a long line to present name and insurance information and be given further instructions, and Mama Kawishe, being the gracious and kind host mother she is, told me to sit (read: collapse) on one of the chairs in the waiting area while she waited in the line for me.

The room smelled like dust and tension. It had the same décor of the Titanic- marble floors, eloquently designed ceiling tiles- but it was obviously old, outdated and in need of maintenance. The whole place had a tinge of yellow to it, as though smokers lived there. There were a lot of people waiting, crowded onto the red plastic chairs, and in the middle of the waiting area there was a bored and irritable-looking nurse sitting with a stethoscope and pressure cuff, her feet propped up on the scale in front of her.

She was painting her nails a poisonous green color and watching the overhead TV, which was repeating movie trailers for “Unstoppable”, “Stone” and “Due Date”, all movies I am now interested in seeing (or perhaps it was just the effect of seeing such a plethora of mzungus on the screen). Every once in awhile a prevention ad for malaria and tobacco use would pop up, or else an ad for a nearby boutique.

By the time I was adequately sure I knew the film progression by heart, Mama Kawishe was at the front of the line and we were soon directed into a small room just off the waiting area.

A young Arab woman sat at the desk in the room, and to my relief she spoke English with a fine American accent. In most situations I wouldn’t care about the language or accent with which someone spoke, but when I’m asking about needles and sterilization I want to be perfectly sure that I am heard correctly.

She asked about my symptoms, medical history, prescripton drugs, and other routine subjects, and then she examined my mouth and ears.

“It’s probably not malaria,” she said, setting down her shiny-ear-looking-thingy and pulling some prescription papers out of a box on her desk, “but I want you to get a blood test to be sure-“

I whimpered a little.

“-and I’ll order a blood pressure test-“

I thought of the irritable-looking nurse outside.

“-and then you just bring the results right back to me and we’ll see what’s wrong.” She handed me two prescriptions, one that just said “BS” and one that just said “BP”, and a little purple object a little larger than a pen cap. Upon further examination I realized it was the needle with which I was going to be stabbed momentarily, encased in protective plastic.

I went and sat tentatively on the edge of the chair next to the irritable-looking nurse, who waited a full fifteen seconds after I sat down to draw her eyes from the TV screen and acknowledge that I was there and in need of her stethoscope-wielding services. She (grudgingly, I thought) strapped the cuff on and, after inflating the thing to painful capacity, took her time in getting the stethoscope to my arm and releasing the air in the cuff. I could see the veins on the back of my hand starting to pop up, which almost never happens, because I think my veins like to stay hidden where needles can’t find them.

After the nurse scribbled a large fraction onto the note that said “BP”, and looked at the other one and pointed me down a long corridor, where a faded yellow sign hung from the ceiling and said “LAB”.

At the door to the lab, I waited until I saw someone that looked professional enough to give my “BS” paper to. A young man in jeans and a button up T-shirt took it and steered me into the lab room, plopping me down into a chair and taking from me the purple needle-holder.

A large man appeared at the door, leaning against the door frame and blocking the exit.

The men inside the lab room bustled around, looking into microscopes and arranging tubes with yellow or dark red contents inside them. The lab was a sunny room, although it had the same old and yellowing feel that the waiting room had to it. Had you removed all the people, it could be the sort of place people use in horror movies about abandoned hospitals (the movie Session 9 comes to mind, if anyone is interested in that sort of thing).

No sooner had I sat down than the man grabbed my hand and started attacking my finger with the cotton swab. I remembered the size of the needle I’d handed him and my exact thoughts were, “NO WAY IS THIS GUY GOING TO STICK THAT NEEDLE UP MY FINGER. I’d rather have malaria, thanks.” (To be fair, these were the thoughts I had about polio, yellow fever, typhoid, tetanus, and influenza when I had to get those shots from the health department before my trip).

He put the needle in a sinister-looking blue thing that at the time looked like it should be used to tranquilize bears at a zoo. My faint request that he put on some plastic gloves went unheard, though when I looked around the room I couldn’t even see a box of them.

He brought the death-needle closer to my hand and I literally pulled my hand back and looked him dead in the face.

“What is going to happen here?! What are you going to do?!”

He just grabbed my hand back, and said “No pain! No pain!” very fast, and jabbed my finger with the blue thing.

I’ll be honest, it didn’t hurt a bit, it was just one of those spring-loaded needles they use to type your blood at a donation site, but I had braced myself for pain akin to having my finger removed with pliers. In my defense, I think it was really unnecessary for them to hand me a two-inch-long needle when all they needed was the 1/8^th of an inch at the end, and then let me sit there and fret about it for ten minutes.

The man wiped my blood on a little clear plastic plate and gave me a cotton ball to stick on the end of my finger. I sat outside the lab room on a red plastic chair next to a set of very young twin girls (both holding cotton balls to their fingers) and their rather large mother. I grinned at the twin next to me.

“My finger has a heartbeat,” I said to her, smiling, knowing fully well that she couldn’t understand me. She looked at me a little funny and mumbled “Sijambo” and turned back to her mother. If my mom had been there, I know she would have probably snorted and laughed, because Elf is one of her favorite movies. I didn’t eat the cotton ball, though.

It took about twenty minutes to get my lab results back (doodles, I thought, because I couldn’t read the writing; way to perpetuate a stereotype, doc) and then I was back in the Arab doctor’s office.

“Your blood test came back negative for malaria, although you did have a high nerophlosmopippydoopedoodah count-“ (whatever that is) “-which does indicate an infection, so I’m going to prescribe you some antibiotics, and some anti-histamines for your congestion, and some painkillers…-.”

She handed me a sheet with the prescriptions on it, we thanked her, and we left. The pharmacy is conveniently located in the waiting room, which I think is another thing America needs to seriously pick up on.

The entire visit cost me about $18 (25,000 TSH), and that’s without medical insurance- mine isn’t accepted in Tanzania except for emergency visits. To put this in perspective, though, $25 is a good half of what most people get paid in a week in Dar Es Salaam. Additionally, this particular hospital is privately owned and operated, and is in quite better shape than a government-run hospital, which would be cheaper but also less safe and less efficient.

The Arab doctor explained to me that while the building doesn’t look very nice, they do their absolute best to make sure that their treatments and equipment are completely sterile, and they don’t re-use needles. She told me that that much can’t be said for all of the hospitals in Dar, though, and some of the more rural hospitals will lie if you ask whether their equipment is sterile.

All in all, though, I had expected a lot worse. It was an overall positive experience and I will be using TMJ as my regular hospital in Dar, when I inevitably get sick again or get mauled by a hippo.

Next time: Discussing a topic of your choice! I’ve had a few suggestions already, but feel free to comment and suggest more.

Oh, and I'm fine now, by the way. :)

Love you Mom and Dad J Eli, excellent job on your Silver Key in the art show- I’m so proud, I hope you never give up the artwork! Miss you tons Nana and Papaw, I love you so much!

Kwa Heri,

Emily

Bombs in Dar

If you watch the world news closely, you may have seen that there were some bomb explosions in Tanzania.

http://www.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/africa/02/17/tanzania.bombings/index.html?hpt=Sbin

I plan on writing more to put in the blog tonight but I’d like to address this first so that I don’t lose any details as time goes on.

Around 9:30 last night, I was sitting in the dining room with Mama Kawishe helping her with her English class homework. I was just about to point out how prepositions are used when we both heard and felt a large BOOM, coming from what felt like right outside the house. The curtains blew inside the house as though someone had directed a giant fan at them, and we could feel the explosion reverberate in our chests, not unlike the feeling one gets when standing too close to a subwoofer. The windows that were shut rattled and the floor shook beneath our feet. It sounded as though someone had dropped a mattress flat on the porch right outside; it sounded very close, or else very loud.

We were running on generator power at the time, and my first thought was that the generator had exploded. Seconds after we felt the first blast, though, there was a second, and Dada came running into the room, looking petrified and speaking very rapidly in Swahili, pointing outside. Mama Kawishe and I both jumped up and hurried outside, where everything looked normal. We stood for a few moments trying to figure out what was happening, when there was another blast and I, standing in the open-air outside kitchen, felt it much more vividly and went back inside.

Jackson was just sitting at the big dining table inside, and didn’t seem to think anything bad was happening. I asked him if he knew what was going on, and he just said simply, “Bombs.”

To a small town girl in Africa for the first time, this is about as reassuring a statement as “Glenn Beck just got named supreme dictator of the world!”

After a few minutes of me shooting him dirty looks and hissing “This isn’t funny! What’s going on?”, Jackson told me that it was probably a bari, or military bomb storage warehouse, that had blown up, which happens when bombs are too old and not disposed of properly. He said it had happened once before, a couple of years before, and that several people died and it destroyed several homes.

The blasts went on like this for several hours, and stopped around midnight. When I boarded the school bus this morning, Mr. Mchombe (the teacher who sits on my left while the bus driver sits on my right) told me that there were 10 reported deaths, and over a hundred injuries from the blasts from the night before. I was a little taken aback by this news, and he went on to explain that the government will probably not give decent compensation to those affected, or provide enough money to replace whatever homes may have been destroyed.

At the school, all the teachers were talking about the blasts. Around 9am, we could hear more booms in the distance; whether this was more rogue bombs or a controlled detonation of the remaining weapons, I don’t know. I wasn’t fond of the situation at all, and chose to put in my headphones and let the score to Inception be my soundtrack for grading papers. I was jerked to attention around 11am by another teacher, who told me that the radio had just informed everyone that three of the largest bombs were about to be detonated. The other teachers were crowded around the windows to watch, but soon after, the radio announced that there would be no new detonations.

The official report so far is that 20 people have been killed and somewhere around 125 injured, a dozen of those in serious condition. One of the other teachers at the school, Mr. Moses, has a close relative in the hospital from the blasts. The airport was shut down, and several cellular service providers sent text messages out to their clients in Swahili, giving information about unclaimed children at police stations and advising everyone to be calm.

For the sake of my grandparents and other concerned relatives- I am fine. The blasts happened 6 miles south of me, much closer to the airport. As I am typing this, the military is investigating the situation and inspecting other bari to be sure that this incident isn’t repeated. If anyone now feels deterred from visiting the country, let me assure you that this is an isolated incident and that Tanzania remains one of the most peaceful and stable countries in Africa.

Will post again very soon with more news about the rainy season!

Love you Nana and Papaw, Miss you so much!
Mom, Dad, and Eli- I love you and miss you very much. Hope to talk to you all again soon!

Still Worth It.

- Gutting wild animals with the large knife after hunting them down with the corkscrew attachment: NO

- Opening bottles of wine in my forest tent deep in the Congo: NO

- Tweezing out splinters of wood from injuries sustained when rope bridge collapsed during my narrow escape from the spear-wielding natives: NO

- Cutting strips of cloth to use as a tourniquet on saber-toothed lion wounds: NO

- Using the toothpick to clean my teeth after cooking and eating crocodile meat using the large and small knife attachments, the corkscrew, and bottle opener: NO

-Manicure set: YES